2 years ago today

So, two years ago today, I was driving to work when I got "the call."  I was instructed to go to Dr. Taylor's office and get the results of my breast biopsy.  Now. When the office didn't just give me the results over the phone, I knew I was in trouble.  Big. Trouble.  

And I was right, my life changed that day and it has never been the same since.  Facing a potentially fatal disease changes you.  It takes away whatever plan you were living and replaces that plan with different plans, uncertain plans, unwanted plans, scary plans, hard plans.  And it takes everyone who loves you along for the ride.  It takes time to adjust and rethink and to finally submit to a new reality.

Submission.  That is a loaded word, isn't it?  I had previously associated submission with the concept of giving up, of giving in, or raising a white flag and saying "stop, I want to get off." 

I use to think that Submission = Quitting. 

Now I look at it differently.  Submission to me now is an act of faith and courage and a belief that "not my will be done, but Thine."  It's a realization that the control I thought I had over my life was very fragile and fleeting.  Submission to me now is having faith instead of fear, hope instead of anxiety, courage instead of worry.  A cancer patient submits to surgery...to chemotherapy...to radiation...and through the process ends us with a different body, mind and attitude.  It's a refining process.  It's not a process I would have signed up for, but one that came my way nonetheless. The cancer patient gets to choose if their anger, fear and frustrations will overpower their desire to hope.  And hope. And hope.  After all, there is always H*O*P*E.

Still ... it is hard to let that worry go. Worry, anxiety and fear. I’ve spent a lot of time with these three feelings over the last two years. What if...  I’m also learning a lot about courage.  Courage is going on in spite of the dark and scary unknown. I’ve wrestled a lot with the concept. Every day each of us step into the void. There is no road map. We don’t know what is going to happen next. I felt that if I just knew what was going to happen, I could handle it, but life doesn’t work that way. Letting go of the anxiety and illusion of control is the only way to make room for courage and hope and to be able to press forward.

As I've mentioned before, I always felt that I would survive this cancer.  And so far, I have.  I have had blood tests, mammograms and other measurements/tests every three months this past year.  Everything looks fine.  That is such wonderful news and a sweet treat to me and all those who love me.

Now my hopes and prayers are directed towards two men in our family who have their own struggles with the unknown results of brain cancer.  I hope they (and all those who love them) find the courage and strength to dwell on the "knowns" in life and not the "unknowns."  Reviewing the "knowns" and actually writing them down and contemplating about them can bring great comfort.  I know I have a Heavenly Father who loves me.  He was a plan for my life.  I know I have a family who loves me.  They support me through everything that comes along.  I know I live in a great land with freedoms and opportunities that are endless. And on and on it goes.  After all, that is what we want most in this life, right?  Comfort and peace to know that we aren't alone and that someday all the things that don't make sense will make perfect sense.  Someday.